


Burning Muses

by Tikatu



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Challenge Response, Gen, Introspection, Muses, Original Universe, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-27 00:29:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tikatu/pseuds/Tikatu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the middle of the night, Brains ponders a problem. Now Virgil writes a song. And John takes a picture. Another Tracy takes up a pen. Scott dances. Originally written for the TB challenge at the now-defunct fanfics(dot)org.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Polyhymnia, Muse of Geometry

**Author's Note:**

> The muse _Polyhymnia_ is the muse of Sacred Poetry, but is also considered the muse of geometry, which is as close as you can get to engineering.
> 
> I don't own them; ITV/Granada does. I didn't create them; that honor belongs to Gerry and Sylvia Anderson. I'm just writing about them.

This night has been a long one so far. I toss and turn, unable to get comfortable. Finally giving up, I lie on my back, staring, eyes unfocused, at the ceiling. There will be no more sleep for me tonight, I think. The burning demons that are my muses wrestle with the problem unearthed today in my latest equipment design for International Rescue. As long as they wrestle, as long as possible solutions flit through my mind at lightning speed, I cannot rest.

My eyelids are heavy. My limbs feel like lead. The last thing I want to do is leave my bed. The last place I want to see is my laboratory. I have just put in a long day with my various duties. Engineer, chemist, medic, maintenance worker, walking computer, rescue team member -- I wear many hats in this organization. But none are more important than designer of the Thunderbirds and all of the auxiliary equipment. This hat fits so tightly around my head right now. This duty causes my mind to whirl even more than usual as I seek an answer. I pray fervently I don't have to go back to the beginning and redesign the whole thing. But if I must, I will. I will not compromise on the quality of my work. I will not endanger my heart's family or those they rescue by cutting corners, by sending them out in something that I know is incomplete or substandard.

The burning in my thoughts intensifies. It's always been this way. My mind will not rest until the solution is found. I used to let the burning drive my body, too. My physical form would suffer for the sake of my mental exercise. Before I met Jeff Tracy, I would stay up all hours making notes, sketching, putting my ideas on the computer to see where they might lead. Back then, I considered my body just the housing for my brain, a necessary appendage, but not very important. I would drink lots of coffee, eating whatever was handy, not wanting to leave an idea or my lab to get something nourishing.

The memory of spending three days in the hospital due to food poisoning surfaces. I shake my head, pushing the memory aside. That would never happen now. Kyrano and Grandma Tracy make sure there is nourishing food for me, even when I'm in the middle of an experiment or a design session. They will come down to the lab to leave a tray with a meal if I am unable to tear myself away. Mrs. Tracy will wag her finger at me, telling me she would be back in thirty minutes and I had better have all the food gone ... or else. And yes, I do know what that "or else" consists of: a verbal dressing down from the sharpest tongue this side of Kansas as I am hauled off to the dining room to be "properly fed". I might not always taste the food when I'm focused on my work, but I will eat it, occasionally surprised that I particularly enjoy some of it.

Wait! Some of the puzzle is fitting into place! I sit up, my lethargy and exhaustion gone. I will pay for this surge of adrenaline later, but now I must get this part of the solution down before I lose it among the ideas clamoring for my attention. Getting out of bed, I put on my glasses and hurry to my computer. My computer is always on. It's been programmed to hibernate when inactive, but a touch brings it to life. Pulling up a note pad, I jot down my idea. As I do, another epiphany strikes, a flash of insight that follows logically on the one before it. Still more ideas scream for recognition. I pluck out the ones that I know will solve my problem. The solution now flows from me like water from an opened sluice gate until, at last, it sits before me, whole. I read it over once, twice, nod, and smile to myself, sighing.

My thoughts have stopped whirling. My demon-muses have been appeased. I yawn, blinking my heavy eyelids. I glance at the computer's clock; it's three in the morning. Part of me wants to start on this right away, to run down to the lab and integrate this idea into the design I have been working on so diligently. However, my common sense weighs in. Mr. Tracy would not be pleased if I worked myself to the bone. Not that he doesn't understand; he's felt that burning, too, in his years of planning for this organization and in his dealings with his conglomerate. He knows the value of a good night's sleep. Were he to find me in the lab right now, he'd just send me back to bed.

I smile again, save my work, and download it to the lab's computers. I can hardly wait to show it to Tin-Tin, but it will wait until after I have rested and refueled my body. It feels good that there are people who care enough about me to save me from my baser tendencies, yet understand my driving need to pour out my ideas without hindrance. Yawning again, I pad over to my bed, laying my glasses on the nightstand. I climb between the sheets and roll over, symbolically turning my back on my muses until such time as I can face them again. With my mind at last still and quiet, I fall asleep.

 


	2. Euterpe, Muse of Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not going to add to this story, the little bit about Brains is complete in itself. But as I looked at it, I saw that there might be others for whom the muses might be a problem. So here's a take on one of them.

It won't get out of my head.

It just won't get out of my head.

No matter where I go, I hear it.

But it's not familiar. I haven't heard it before. Not on the vid, not on the radio, not through my 'puter.

It's totally new.

Which means it's mine.

There's only one thing to do.

I walk up to the lounge from the pool, taking the stairs two at a time. There's an urgency to this; what I have in my head is a limited time offer. The song that's buzzing around in my brain, in my inner ear, won't be there forever. It's happened to me before, always to my great dismay and disappointment. I'll get a melody in my head at a time or place where I can't release it to the air or to paper so I can play it again. By the time I'm free to bring forth the product of my muse, it's gone. Gone forever.

But not this time.

My eyes are focused on my piano as I enter the lounge. Nothing else, no one else matters; indeed, if the room is occupied, I don't even notice. I flip up the bench top, taking out the folder that contains some of my other work. Some scores are half-finished; I had to leave the job halfway through. When I came back to it, I couldn't recapture the tune, not like I had it before the interruption. Some pieces are complete and just need to be transferred to the music scoring program in my computer for storage. Some songs, however, are so emotional, so deeply personal, that they will never see the light of day, except on the sheets in my folder.

There is fresh scoring paper available, so I take several leaves, arranging them on the piano's music stand. I dig out my pens. I like to work with a flat, calligraphy-style pen. I have two, one with a totally flat surface and another with a gap in the center for making marks like whole notes. Using them to draw the notes is less time consuming than trying to make little circles. I also take out a bottle of ink eraser for I know that during this process, I will be making lots of mistakes in transcribing. I always do.

There's a small audio recorder at one side of the piano. Turning it on, I begin to play, just a little at a time. Then I go back and listen to what I've recorded, just to see if it matches what's in my head. If it does, I transcribe it to paper. If it doesn't, I try again. This is the most tedious part of releasing the music. It can take hours. My family usually abandons the room at this point. Gordon says there's nothing so aggravating as hearing the same little part of a tune over and over again, especially if there are no changes to be made. My grandma puts it far more kindly. She says that once I've started writing the song, she leaves so that, when I'm finished, she can come back and be surprised by what I've written. My father says that he leaves for both our sakes; so that he can focus on his work while giving me the opportunity to focus on what I'm doing, without his "puttering around" as a distraction.

The one person who does not abandon me is Kyrano. He will slip in on his quiet feet to bring me a glass of water, or, depending on how long it takes, a small snack. Then he will listen for a bit before going about his duties. I never know when he is there, just the sudden appearance of sustenance tells me that he's been and gone.

Releasing the music is almost orgasmic. I work at a fever pitch, feeling all jittery inside, frustrated at every mistake I make because it puts the final feeling of accomplishment off further and further. But at last the score is finished. How do I know? I just know. There's a sense of completion, of wholeness, and of deep relief. I'm no longer jittery. The music is gone from my head and is played out for me on paper. All I have to do is put my fingers on the keys to hear it again and this time, I get to share it with my family if I so desire.

I do. The music is emotional enough, true, but not a personal emotion. It reminds me of Gordon and the sea. I think it will move him. The image that the song invokes in my mind's eye is of him swimming and diving in the waves. That helps me decide on the title: "Aquanaut".

I play the piece all the way through. It sounds right, feels right.

It is right.

A soft clapping greets my ears when I end the piece. I look up to see my father sitting behind his desk, smiling at me.

"How long have you been there, Dad?"

"The whole time, Virgil. I got so caught up in what I was doing that I didn't notice you come in. Oncce I did, I would have disturbed you by leaving. I didn't want to do that, so I toughed it out. And I'm glad I did."

I smile before asking the question that I most need the answer to: "Do you like it?"

His smile gets wider. "Yes, son. Very much. It reminds me of the sea and Gordon romping around in it."

That's when I know that the song is really right. My father is not an artistic man. For him to get the same mental images from the song as I do confirms everything I feel about the music.

"Thanks, Dad. It reminds me of that, too."

I stand and stretch, splaying out my cramped fingers and shrugging my shoulders to ease their tension. A glance outside tells me that I've been working on this all afternoon; the sun is setting. My stomach growls alarmingly and I feel an desperate urge of another sort.

"Did we miss dinner?"

"No, son. Your grandma hasn't called us down yet."

"Good. I'll be there soon."

I leave the lounge feeling empty yet satisfied. My muse has been appeased -- for now. Next time, I'm sure it will be a muse of a different sort that plagues me until I capture on canvas what she has inspired me to paint.


	3. Urania - Muse of Astronomy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes a picture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own them, I'm just writing about them. Another offering from my own muse. _Urania_ is the muse of astronomy, so you can guess who this is about. It's also partially based on my own oldest son, whose obsession with critters of all kinds is legendary in our house. Enjoy.

The picture is fuzzy.

I squint at it, turn it sideways.

Nope.

Still fuzzy.

Could it be the lens? Does it need cleaning? Did I jog the telescope somehow when the shutter was open?

I shake my head. Why wouldn't it be fuzzy? After all, it's millions upon millions of light-years away. Even though our telescope is the best that money can buy and still fit in the astrodome, even though I'm outside of the effect that Earth's atmosphere has on deep space photography, things like this are going to happen.

I sigh and turn my augmented eye on the quasar again. I'm in the midst of updating my first book, the one that's considered a primer for the budding astronomer. I want to get some more images, better images, pictures of the Tracy Quasar, views of some of the other celestial bodies that have been discovered since I first wrote this book. Images that will ignite a love of the stars, the same love I've had ever since I realized what those little dots of light really were.

Exactly when it was or how old I was, I couldn't tell you. It seemed this love always burned inside me. My father said I was three or four when I began to ask about the constellations. He began teaching me then, pointing out the formations, drawing them on paper and telling me the stories behind their names. I think he was pleased that one of his children was as interested in space as he had been. But I just couldn't get enough. There was so much more to know! It pushed me to learn to read at a very young age simply so I could get books on astronomy out of the library. I was the grade school kid who brought home adult-level science books to see what new facts about the stars I could glean from them. I was the brother who made his siblings groan at the dinner table whenever I began a conversation with, "Did you know...?". Dad gave me my first telescope when I was eight; woe to any of my brothers who dared even breathe on it! That was when I began my own observations of the stars, hoping to find out something new and dazzling about them.

Unlike most childhood pasttimes, my love of astronomy grew as each year passed. It became obvious it was to be a consuming passion of mine. Dad encouraged it, fed it, sat back and watched me enjoy it. It was the reason I went into the field of laser communications at Harvard; the latest star mapping technology used lasers. It was why I became an astronaut, taking the training offered at Tracy College. I broke down and cried on my first flight outside the Earth's atmosphere when I realized that all the constellations that I knew and loved were now strangers. I cried tears of joy now I could learn about them all over again, seeing them as they really were, unfiltered by the protective arms of Mother Earth. If possible, my passion burned even brighter then, setting my life's course forever. I became a true astronomer.

My passion fit right in with Dad's plans. He needed someone who loved space, who wouldn't tire of it easily, who would find a challenge in it daily. I was his man. I remember the wonder I felt the first time I took command of Thunderbird Five, the awe I experienced the first time I looked through this same telescope to see farther into space than I ever had before. I remember my excitement when I found the quasar. I didn't call home for a week, I was so absorbed in my study of it. There was only one rescue during that time, and Dad couldn't fail to hear the distraction in my voice. So as soon as it was over, he, Alan, and Scott were on their way up to see what was wrong. I remember the jolt I got when Dad's head popped up into the astrodome from below. I turned to him, and, with a voice full of joy and excitement, I cried, "Dad! Look what I've found! You _have_ to see what I've found! I've discovered a quasar!"

He looked through the telescope long and hard, so quiet as he peered through the eyepiece. I began to sweat. I didn't know if he would understand how much this meant to me, if he'd forgive the time taken away from my duties to study this new phenomena. Then he looked up and smiled, a grin that nearly split his face. He turned to me and pulled me into a strong hug, thumping me on the back.

"Congratulations, son! It's fantastic! A brand new, undiscovered quasar!"

Scott and Alan were stumbling all over themselves then, wanting to see what I found so fascinating. For the first time in years, I was able to bring forth my knowledge and impress my brothers instead of making them groan. I basked in the unmitigated approval of my father like never before.

He told Scott to stay behind and man the monitor room so I could make more observations. For two weeks Scott listened to me go on about the quasar. By the end we were back to the old days of "Did you know...?". At that point, he would have gladly throttled me, but Alan came up for his turn in the rotation, saving him the trouble. I begged and pleaded with Dad to let me stay on during Alan's term, but he was emphatic I come home.

"We need to see you, John, and you need to have some time here with the family. Bring your research with you. You've got to get this quasar registered through the proper channels so you can be recognized as its discoverer," he told me firmly. "Besides, some rest and sunshine and you'll be fit to continue your research with a clear head."

He was right, of course. I filled out the paperwork as the quasar's discoverer right away, naming it for my family. I found out later another claim had been filed three weeks after mine. While I was dirtside, I organized my data and began the bare bones of my fourth book, a slim volume on the Tracy Quasar. Dad has an autographed copy among the books behind his desk, sitting alongside my other three volumes. Occasionally, I see him reading it through and smiling.

The thought of the book brings me back to the present. I've been lost in thought for some time now and I grin. Settling my eye down to the viewer, I look with pride on my discovery, then I open the shutter to the camera, hoping this time to get a clear picture of it. The exposure will take a while, so I abandon the astrodome to find something to eat. As I climb down the ladder, I glance upwards. My soul is stirred again by the beauty of the heavens above me and I shiver. The passion is still there, burning brightly. I count myself fortunate; I can pursue my passion for as long I desire, supported in that pursuit by those who mean the most to me in all the universe.


	4. Erato - Muse of Love Poetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeff Tracy takes up a pen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the last one, but one can never tell. It is the muse of love poetry, **Erato**. I don't own them, I'm just writing about them. Thanks to my late friend Hobbeth for betareading this.

The paper stares up at me, daring me to mark it with my pen.

I swallow, my mouth dry.

I pick up my pen.

But there's nothing there.

I don't know why I do this.

Most of the time I can push this urge away, ignore it, pretend it doesn't exist.

But not today.

Today it has overwhelmed me once again, driving me to the solitude of my room, pushing me to pour into words the memories, the way that I feel, and how very, very much I miss her....

My Lucille.

_Sigh._

My sons will tell you that I am not an artistic man.

They are right.

It's not that I have no sense when it comes to art. I know what I like, whether I hear it or see it. Virgil is both artistic and talented; it exudes from everything he does. John's also a talented artist, but with words. I consider it an art to take that most complex of subjects, astronomy, and translate it into terms anyone can understand. The other boys have talents, too, perhaps not artistic ones, but their own nonetheless.

When I see something I like, I purchase it. Like that statue of the Thai dancer. I liked it, thought it showcased the artist's talent well, and bought it. The sculptor was struggling at the time. He struggles no more. He is sought after by kings and ministers of high estate to create for them one masterpiece after another. I saw his talent before he was considered a master, so I smile whenever I look at the dancer poised there on one leg.

Ideas? Those I have in plenty. I'm constantly jotting them down on whatever is handy. It used to be that I'd bring home linen napkins from the various restaurants where I would dine, covered with arcane bits of notes that sometimes didn't make sense the next day. Now I have a data pad that I keep with me to serve that function. It's been a lifesaver as far as my ideas are concerned. The notes now make sense ... most of the time.

But this? Pouring out what I felt, what I still feel for my late wife, trying to put those emotions into a form that is meaningful and memorable? Nigh on impossible. Still, there are times when I attempt it. Attempt and fail miserably.

During our marriage, I brought home flowers. Sometimes wine or chocolates. I bought lots of greeting cards, picking them over carefully to find the one that said exactly what I wanted to say to her, beyond the three most important words: "I love you". I would slip one under her pillow before I left for work, or stick it on her mirror where she'd be sure to see it. I very rarely wrote her letters, and I can count on one hand the number of times I actually wrote a love poem that I felt passed muster. She always cried when I presented her with one; tears of joy, she told me. She never asked for more than that. She knew what a struggle it was for me to put my feelings down on paper.

But today is our wedding anniversary. Today I am compelled again to try and describe her and how I felt about her. It's a hopeless task. How can words describe the silky cascade of her hair as I ran my hands through it? Or the sweetness of her lips as they touched mine? How do I capture the warmth of her smile, the smile that was for me and me alone? How do I explain that sometimes, when I am on the verge of wakefulness, I still think I feel her warm body beside me in bed?

Oh, God. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I let this compulsion overrule my sensible side?

The paper stares at me still, and I put down my pen. I will not take its dare today. Today I admit my failure before I even begin to try. I wipe the tears from my eyes, and I pick up her picture. She is radiant in the portrait, as radiant as she is in my dreams. Words can never, ever do her justice. They can never express my feelings in their whole.

I'm sorry, Lucille. No sentimental effusions of my heart today.

All I can tell you is, I love you.

And I miss you, far more than words can say.


	5. Terpsichore - Muse of Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terpsichore is the classical Muse of Dance. This chapter has been percolating in my head for a long time but I didn't have a clear direction to go with it until just recently. The direction was provided by a family wedding. My parents usually dance at any wedding they're invited to, even after fifty-plus years of marriage. To my knowledge, my mother is the only one my father will dance with these days, hence the hook on which I've hung my tale.
> 
>  _Disclaimer:_ I didn't create them; Gerry and Sylvia Anderson did. I don't own them either; ITV/Granada does. I'm just writing about them. Thanks to ThatGirlSix and Lillehafrue for the beta.
> 
> * * *

I have few clear memories left of my mother, but I vividly remember how she and Dad would dance. With four small boys, they didn't have much opportunity to socialize. Dad's frequent absences only made it worse. Still, they did what they could. They'd put on some slow music and dance in the living room while we watched. I remember insisting Mom dance with me, too. I'd stand on her feet, take her hands, and she'd shuffle me around the room, laughing.

Sometimes I'd sneak out of my room quietly and catch them late at night. They looked so comfortable in each other's arms. They fit so perfectly together. Dad would smile at her; they'd kiss deeply—and like any other red-blooded American boy, I'd make my escape from all that yucky, mushy stuff.

As we grew up, Dad insisted we learn how to dance. "It's a skill you'll need to have later in life," he said. In order to make it easier, he paid for lessons. So, at age twelve, each of us endured six embarrassing weeks shuffling around a dance studio, putting sweaty hands on girls taller than we were while our friends teased us mercilessly.

But damn! Those lessons sure came in handy during prom season!

After Grandpa died, I noticed Grandma turn down older gentlemen who asked her to dance at a wedding. "Why don't you want to dance with them?" I asked.

She gave me this wistful smile. "It wouldn't be the same as dancing with your grandfather. We fit together so nicely." Having seen Dad dancing with Mom, I understood where she was coming from.

Dad, however, still danced with various ladies of his acquaintance. As an up-and-coming businessman, he had more opportunity to do so. "It's expected of me," he explained. "I network and build up goodwill while I dance." He grimaced. "I keep telling myself it's worth the bruised toes." Shaking his head, he added, "It's not like dancing with your mother. They just don't fit like she did."

In the Air Force, I discovered a different kind of dancing. They say that dog-fighting is almost an aerial ballet. I agree. You lead in the dance with your jet as your partner. Mentally and physically you have to fit together well, especially in warfare. You discover how she reacts when you move the steering yoke just so. You develop a sense of timing for take-offs and landings—just how fast to go, when to drop the landing gear. You learn not only to watch your instruments but how she feels in the air. Is she sluggish? Was that a hitch in the engine? Soon it becomes a smooth melding of man and machine, so much so you're thrown out of step when gunfire strafes her wings.

When you reach that smooth state, that melding, it's exhilarating. Pulse-pounding, adrenaline-pumping euphoria. You don't want it to end. There's nothing like it.

But, no matter how well you know that plane, there comes a time when someone else sits in her cockpit and becomes her partner. No matter how well you fit together, she's not yours. She never was.

Dad and Grandma? Totally different story. At the end of the dance, they went home with their partners. No one new usurped that dance. No one ever fit exactly the same way again.

Why am I talking about this? Well, I finally found a partner that fits me perfectly. When we dance, we're totally in synch. I make a move and she follows, smoothly, effortlessly. Dancing with her reminds me of those heady, exhilarating days when I flew and fought in the skies—only better. Because when our dance is over, I get to go home with her. True, she might dance with my brothers on rare occasions, yet no one knows her like I do. No one fits her so perfectly that we might as well be one.

Who is she?

Thunderbird One.


End file.
